


After Midnight

by Devilc



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a couple days at the hospital in Banika before Leckie's dick decides it's time to wake up. Weeks of combat and the incessant rain on Cape Gloucester sent his libido into hibernation.</p><p>Surprisingly, looking at the pretty nurses at the end of the ward doesn't do it. No, for some reason he'll never fathom, it decides that the time to wake up and start wanting again is after helping Ruddiger carry Captain Midnight to a cot in something little better than a chicken coop at the end of the ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> The tension between Leckie and Ruddiger the orderly in the Hospital just ping ping pinged with me. Thanks to Cat Named Eastr for the beta.
> 
> Legalese: The Pacific is copyright its respective owners. I created only this work of modern folklore as a labor of what if, not money. This work is a work of fantasy and is not indicative any person's world view or actions.

It takes a couple days at the hospital in Banika before Leckie's dick decides it's time to wake up. Weeks of combat and the incessant rain on Cape Gloucester sent his libido into hibernation.

Surprisingly, looking at the pretty nurses at the end of the ward doesn't do it. No, for some reason he'll never fathom, it decides that the time to wake up and start _wanting_ again is after helping Ruddiger carry Captain Midnight to a cot in something little better than a chicken coop at the end of the ward.

The Doc says the men in the ward are mostly like Leckie, just exhausted. But as Ruddiger turns from having splashed his face with the tepid water from the tap and the bitter words about this being as much action as he'll see all war drip from his mouth, Leckie gets that _he's_ exhausted. Exhausted from dealing with men like Captain Midnight, like Gibson, like himself.

Leckie doesn't say anything to Ruddiger, just stubs his smoke out, catches up to Ruddiger, puts his hands on his shoulders, and gently guides him into the darkest corner of the room. He doesn't say anything because there's nothing to say, nothing that gets it right. Leckie's a writer. He knows all too well that there's what's in your head, and then there's what happens when you try to turn what's in your head into words, and that sometimes the two are nowhere near each other.

(Oh Jesus. Gibson. In that _cage_. What came out of Leckie's mouth at that point had _nothing_ to do with the contents in his brain. There just aren't words for seeing a guy you know reduced to that. Ever.)

Ruddiger doesn't say anything back, either. And since he's Navy, he probably knows that there's only one reason a guy like Leckie's standing this close to him, running his hands down the open front of that chambray work shirt, fingers stopping and lingering a moment on the stains caused by the bloody nose that Captain Midnight gave Ruddiger not 15 minutes ago.

They don't kiss. This isn't romance or a night of shore leave. Hell, it's not even blowing off steam.

It's comfort, pure and simple. It's the sex version of bacon and eggs, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes with butter, a cold beer on a hot day, what they're doing right now.

It's trousers and skivvies shoved down to knee level, and the feeling of a heart hammering hard -- but not from fear -- against your chest. It's the sound of ragged, panting breaths -- that don't come from running for your life. It's the feel of something fever hot on your palm and fingers, but the shiver-shakes, twitching, and spastic jerking have nothing to do with malaria. It's about biting your lip hard enough to bleed as Ruddiger does this -- _SweetJesus yeslikethat_ \-- thing with his thumb that makes your knees shake like hell's raining down all around you, and you can't cry out because it's all over for both of you if somebody hears a noise and investigates.

Leckie's still sagging, riding the last waves of blissed out goodness, still bracing himself against the wall with one hand when Ruddiger wipes them both clean with an efficiency that speaks of practice. Lots of practice.

(Puke, blood, shit, piss, ... come. This is just another one of the thousand and one wet messes Ruddiger's going to clean up before this whole thing is through.)

Ruddiger will probably never hear the snap of a shot fired in anger, but Leckie knows he does not have it easy or good.

Not _here_ he doesn't.

But as Leckie heads back to his cot in the hopes of grabbing a few winks, he's certain of two things:

One, he's got to get out of here as soon as he can convince the Doc to sign the papers.

Two, this is probably the first time in weeks Ruddiger's had a genuine reason to smile.


End file.
